The Burnt House. Faye Kellerman

the winds pick up. Are you going to be okay?”

      “Absolutely,” Rina said. “Go, Peter. And thanks for getting me here so quickly.”

      “She’s my daughter, too. Give her a kiss and tell her I love her.”

      “I will.”

      Decker returned to the unmarked, now sandwiched between Rina’s Volvo and a Lincoln Navigator. He turned on the siren, it squawked, and the car behind him gave him an inch of backup room. A minute later, he was on the boulevard, using his wipers to clear white ash from his windshield. Even with the siren, the normally five-minute drive took much longer. All the traffic signals were out and the roadways were clogged with vehicles. Weaving in and out of the tiny spaces allotted to him by his siren, Decker managed to reach ten blocks from the appointed spot before he espied the yellow police barricade tape. Miraculously, he found a parking space that didn’t block the street or any driveway. The scorched atmosphere was thick with ash falling like rain. Even with the door closed and the windows up, there was a sickening, permeating stink of jet fuel and molten metal and wood that burned his throat.

      As a detective lieutenant, Decker was choosy about his field visits when a crime was called in. But he was always prepared, and that meant he had latex gloves and face masks in the console of his car. He slipped on the mask, wishing he had goggles as he opened the door.

      Immediately his face was hit by a heavy slap of hot air. The sky billowed with black smoke and the occasional leap of an orange flame. He showed his badge to a uniform, also wearing a face mask, whose assignment was to patrol the borders of the yellow tape. The kid’s eyes were jumpy as Decker stepped over the tape.

      God, they made them young these days.

      As he edged closer to the disaster, visibility was reduced to soup, the fire’s roar pounding in his ears like crashing waves. He could make out a plethora of fire trucks: departments of every stripe had been called down to the scene. There were ambulances of all colors and makes. Sirens wailed and strobe lights flashed through the misty darkness. Human figures skittered about like gnats.

      When he got within a half block of the rendezvous location, he spotted a trio that could have been anyone, but by their height and shape, Decker surmised that they were Marge Dunn, Scott Oliver, and Wanda Bontemps. With every forward step, the stench grew stronger—fuel oil, charred wood, boiling metal. He could barely hear himself think because of the screech of lapping flames, sirens, and human screams. Trained as a medic in Vietnam, Decker had seen destruction and chaos, but none of his war experiences could have prepared him for this.

      When he was within striking distance, Decker saw that his identity assumptions had been correct. Marge Dunn, Scott Oliver, and Wanda Bontemps were sweating under protective gear—slicker coats, mouth masks, and goggles. Marge waved Decker over and handed him a slicker and a pair of goggles. She shouted, “Strapp told me to bring these for you.”

      “Smart thinking,” Decker shouted back. “How long have you been here?”

      “About three minutes and that’s too long,” Marge hollered. She was a tall woman but seemed bent over and consumptive under the weight of smoke and a heavy protective coat. Her forehead was soaked and dirty.

      Decker said, “Does anyone know what crashed?”

      “WestAir out of Burbank,” Wanda Bontemps screamed. “A commuter airlines. I heard there were around forty-five aboard?”

      “God, that’s awful,” Decker said. “Terrorism or mechanical failure?”

      Shrugs all around. Stupid question. How the hell should they know? His mouth was speaking before the brain kicked in. Decker felt a vibration on his chest. His cell was ringing. He shouted into the receiver. “Scream or I won’t be able to hear you.”

      It was Strapp, and even though the captain was shouting, Decker could barely make out his words. He plugged up his other ear with his finger. “Okay … will do … I’ve got it.” He returned the cell to his pocket. “He’s stuck in traffic from a tactical meeting. First thing we need to do is evacuate the residential area in an orderly fashion. Let’s work within a ten-block radius outside the yellow tape line. The fire marshals are clearing the area within the barricades.”

      Decker managed to extract a notepad from his suit jacket.

      “First, let’s get the ghouls and the lookie-loos out of here. Wanda, if you take care of that, we get some clear lanes for emergency vehicles. Anyone who doesn’t leave immediately is subject to arrest. Marge, you coordinate with traffic. Take a bunch of uniforms, station them at every other intersection, and set up some kind of traffic escape route. Oliver, let’s work out an orderly grid of the area. I’ll start grabbing as many detectives and officers as I can so we can start knocking on doors.”

      As expected in the ensuing pandemonium, the biggest problem was cars jamming up the streets. Panicked folk were packing cherished belongings, stuffing their valuables into cars, trucks, and vans. This particular vicinity was a neighborhood of solid homes with dens, big TVs, and lots of electronics. Some of the houses had pools, and decks and barbecues. All of that could be replaced. It was all the silly items abandoned inside that made people weep: the photo albums, vacation souvenirs, the knickknacks, and the curios.

      As soon as Oliver got a decent grid map, Decker made his assignments to his waiting detectives, saving the evacuation of the area nearest to the crash for himself. There was a bullhorn on each block telling people that they had to leave their homes now. That was fine for people with cars, but what about those who were without transportation? What about the sick and the elderly?

      Decker began to knock on doors.

      The first house in his area belonged to a woman with two small children. She was very thin, her dark hair covered with ash, turning it gray. She coughed as she cried, hauling out a brown box filled with items that were obviously important to her. Her two small children were already strapped into car seats.

      Decker said, “You must evacuate now. It’s not safe for your children and you to breathe in this air.”

      “I have to lock the door.”

      “Give the keys to me and get in the car.”

      The woman complied, slipping into the driver’s seat. Decker returned with her keys and helped her back out of her driveway and into a lane of cars.

      Banging on the door to the second house, Decker got no response, but he could hear frantic barking. Looking through the cyclone fence that delineated a backyard, he spotted a small ivory-colored toy poodle, forlorn and incarcerated. He opened the gate and picked up the pooch, carrying it to the next house.

      That house was occupied by a young Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform and small Caucasian preschoolers. He told her she must leave with the children. “Do you have a car?” Decker asked her in English.

      “I try calling Missy. The phone no work.”

      Decker switched to Spanish. “You have to leave the house. You carry the little girl; I’ll get the big one.” He hoisted a boy of around four into his arm while holding the crying poodle. “Come on. Let’s get out of here.”

      “What about Missy?” the housekeeper asked frantically.

      “Tell your boss that the police made you leave.” Decker spied the neighbor across the street loading his family into his van. He darted across the street with the kid and the dog in his arms. He spoke to a man who appeared to be in his forties. “Take the woman and children with you. They’re stuck without transportation out of here.”

      “There’s no room,” the neighbor said, folding his arms across his chest.

      “Then take out the boxes and make room!” Decker shouted.

      The man backed down and found room in the car. “Not the dog,” the man insisted. “I’m allergic.”

      Decker didn’t press the dog. As he crossed back, he knocked on the hood of a sedan driven by a young mother. Her baby was in the back.